Rammarico e Colpa
by tbka
Summary: .::.One Shot.::. He was sitting at his desk, his cane grasped tightly in his right hand. Wilson listened to the sounds of rhythmic beating as House nervously tapped his cane on the floor.


**Rammarico e Colpa**

_**Summary:** He was sitting at his desk, his cane grasped tightly in his right hand. Wilson listened to the sounds of rhythmic beating as House nervously tapped his cane on the floor._

_**Genre:** Angst_

_**Rating:** K+_

_**Author's Notes:** Title is Italian… means _Regret and Blame_. This is my first House fic… so, be nice?_

_**Disclaimer:** I don't own House… please don't sue._

**Please R&R… Thanks!**

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Wilson had been the first to notice, other then the ducklings, that the police were talking to House. At first he had been concerned but Cameron had informed him that the police said House was not in trouble with the law. Which was a relief – no one wanted a repeat of the Tritter saga.

But it had been over half an hour, and House had made certain that the blinds were shut in his office. So all that anyone could do was sit and wait in the adjoining room. Wilson had patients to see but couldn't quite bring himself to leave.

Cuddy came after Wilson had paged her. She stayed for only a few minutes and ended up leaving – that was about ten minutes ago. She had said something about a patient but it could wait. Wilson doubted it really could but didn't question her. Not that they could really do anything without House… he was, after all, the Head of Diagnostics. And as much as Wilson didn't acknowledge it, he was the one of the smartest doctors he knew.

It was forty minutes after the police first came until they actually left, excusing themselves from House's office.

He didn't come out.

Wilson could only manage to wait another five minutes before he himself opened the door that joined House's office to the room the rest of them were in. The oncologist pushed aside the blinds and softly closed the door behind him – he could hear the soft whispers of House's lackeys in the other room.

He was sitting at his desk, his cane grasped tightly in his right hand. Wilson listened to the sounds of rhythmic beating as House nervously tapped his cane on the floor.

"What happened?" Wilson cringed as his voice broke the still silence.

"Nothing."

Wilson cocked his head and took a few steps forward, resting his hands on top of the desk. "Something happened. What?"

"You don't need to know." House's voice was quiet, forced.

"House."

He stood up, leaning heavily on his cane, keeping is eyes on the floor. "Make sure they don't kill anyone today." He nodded slightly in the direction of the adjoining room, indicating that he was speaking about his lackeys.

Wilson watched in silence as House grabbed his backpack and keys.

"Where are you going?"

House paused at the door, seemingly trying to decided where he was, in fact, going. "Home," he finally stated.

Wilson sighed. "You need to talk."

The door closed behind the Diagnostician and Wilson found himself on the outside, again. But the oncologist was not one to be easily foiled and he followed House into the hall.

"Greg!" Wilson's hand reached out and grabbed his friend's cane, forcing him to stop.

"Let go, you're being juvenile." House did a remarkable job of making his voice not-really shake.

"You're being stubborn."

"I'm being me."

"You need to talk."

"You need to go away."

"You _need_ to talk."

"You don't need to know."

"What happened?"

"Let go!" House's voice was a little louder than he meant it to be.

Wilson relented and let go of the cane. He knew that he wouldn't win this fight, at least, not here and not now. So instead he settled for watching House as he limped away and out of sight. The oncologist sighed and turned around, finally making his way to his office to start the day.

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Wilson knocks three times, but no one answers. He had already phoned, multiple times, earlier – but there had been no response then either. He pulls out his key to House's apartment and unlocks the door.

He can't say he's surprised. It's not like this is the first time that he's seen House piss drunk. But this time it's a little different. This time there's no jokes, no sarcasm to accompany the alcohol. No bitter remorse or painful memories.

Just nothing.

Wilson doesn't ask questions. He knows now is not the time. He simply sits with his friend until House becomes too exhausted and drained to stay awake anymore. So he helps his friend to bed and stays until he knows that House is asleep and not in danger of overdosing, whether on drugs or alcohol.

He wasn't surprised when House phoned in sick the next day.

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When House finally showed up to work, four days later, he spoke to no one of anything. All he did was his job. Wilson was amazed that he could ignore what-it-was-that-happened-before-that-he-wouldn't-tell-anyone-about and focus on just the medicine. But anyone with half a brain could still see the pain in his eyes, the pain he was so desperately trying to hide. All you had to do was look a little harder than normal.

And Wilson just wanted to know why. Just fucking why. Yet House couldn't even give him that.

Not yet at least.

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The next day House's dad paid a visit. A very exciting visit – full of anger, yelling, and in the end, a punch to the Diagnostician's jaw. But still no answers to the question: What actually happened?

By lunch time the whole hospital staff knew about John House's outburst.

No one was surprised when House went home early. At least he had the decency to solve his patient's case before leaving.

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House phoned in away for the next three days. Citing "personal reasons" to Cuddy as his excuse. She didn't push for answers, everyone could tell that something had really happened and that House wasn't just fucking with everyone like he did so many times.

The ducklings had their theories of what was wrong. But in the end the three of them had agreed on the fact that someone close to House had died. Though they couldn't quite figure out who exactly would be close enough to House for the Diagnostician to really care.

Wilson deduces that they don't really know House all too well if they seriously think the doctor has gone through his whole life without having anyone to care about.

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When House returned to work he seemed better, seemed more normal. At least, as normal as House can get. But Wilson knew otherwise. Most other people couldn't see it but Wilson did… the pain was still there, just hidden a little better now. Plus, he was taking more pills. A lot more pills.

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The next day Cameron went to Cuddy, told her that she found alcohol in House's desk. Cuddy tracked down House in the clinic and practically the whole hospital heard the yelling that came from the exam room.

The father of House's current patient also heard the news – he wasn't amused. Wilson ended up bringing House ice for yet another punch to the jaw.

To his credit he stayed up through the night. By five-ish the next morning he had the cure. Wilson was amazed – for someone who seemed to be quickly falling of the rails he still managed to keep his head about him when it came to his job.

Wilson still wasn't sure what Cameron was doing looking through House's desk… but he figured he had more important things to worry about.

Like finding out what had actually happened.

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When House didn't show up for work _and_ didn't call in sick Wilson left early – on both his gut instincts and Cuddy's insistence.

He found House collapsed in his apartment, barely breathing. Wilson called 911 and within minutes House was admitted into Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Turns out it was a Vicodin overdose. The Diagnostician needed his stomach pumped.

House went home the next day. Somehow he either manipulated or bribed the psych doctor's into discharging him without actually passing a psych evaluation. Everyone knew there was no way on earth that Dr. Gregory House could ever pass a psych exam.

Cuddy told House not to come in for a week – he didn't. And he didn't answer Wilson's phone calls… he wasn't even staying at his apartment. Wilson knew that because Wilson stayed there every night, and House was never there.

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Wilson wasn't one to snoop but he couldn't help himself. For the week that he stayed at House's apartment, waiting for the Diagnostician to come home, he ended up maybe-sort-of looking at things he probably shouldn't have.

One thing that sent off warning bells in his head was the file of a patient from two years ago. A young girl by the name of Rebecca Tunstale… a file separated from two huge piles of other files. Had House looked through all his old patient files to find this specific one?

She had died from lupus. According to the file they hadn't caught it in time. Strange… House always likes to joke about how it's never lupus – but this time it had been.

Wilson found another thing that had sent off more warning bells in his head; Blythe House's will – along with letters she had wrote to her son and family pictures. What was House doing with this things? Reminiscing? That's definitely not like House at all. And why would he have his mother's will?

Wilson couldn't help but feel the knot in the pit of his stomach growing with each day that House didn't come home and each phone call the Diagnostician didn't answer.

He prayed that House didn't go and do something stupid, like get himself arrested or killed. But Wilson couldn't stop worrying… House would tell him, if he was there, to stop being a wussy and that he's not his mother.

In truth, House didn't really mind Wilson's over-caring attitude as much as he said he did – but he wouldn't tell Wilson that.

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On Sunday night, the night before he's suppose to go back to work, House came home. He sends a few curses Wilson's way when he finds out the oncologist was staying in his apartment waiting for him. But Wilson knows that something is very, very wrong.

Mainly from the fact that House's eyes are blood-shot and red-rimmed… but yet he isn't drunk. No – House has been crying.

And Wilson knows that House doesn't cry unless something really, really bad has happened. Which brings Wilson back to the very beginning.

"What happened House? What was it that the police talked to you about?"

"Shut-up, Jimmy," House mutters as he lowers himself onto the couch.

_Jimmy_. House never calls Wilson 'Jimmy' unless he's upset. And Wilson knows that… Wilson knows more about House than House would care to acknowledge.

And Wilson knows he needs to get to bottom of all this now before it's too late.

"What happened?" Wilson asks again, plopping down beside his friend on the couch.

"I think I just told you to shut-up."

Wilson swipes the remote from House's hand before he can turn the TV on. "You're going to tell me what happened… this has gone on long enough."

House stays silent and after awhile he simple stands up, leaning on his cane for more support than usual.

"Greg…" Wilson knows he can't let this drop this time. "Stop avoiding this… stop pretending that nothing's changed, that's nothing happened. Stop hiding."

The cane crashes against the TV, breaking the screen – actually going right through the screen. Wilson jumps at the sudden and surprising noise. This wasn't something he had expected at all.

"She died!" House yells. "Okay? My mother is dead! Fucking dead! You know how? Do you know how!"

Wilson shakes his head in a silent 'no.' He's unsure of what to do. He's seen House angry before, but this, this is a lot more anger then he's ever seen.

"Murdered!" House chuckles – a sad, lifeless chuckle devoid of any of the emotions that should be in a chuckle. "Murdered by some mother of a little girl I couldn't save. Murdered by someone who wanted to pay me back. My mother's dead because I failed to save someone."

"Greg…"

"Don't tell me it's not my fault!" House cuts him off. "I missed the diagnosis! That girl died because I failed to notice the symptoms soon enough! But I should have. I know I should have… it was so simple…" He voice falls to a whisper at the end. "And now my mom's dead."

"Greg…"

"It was lupus… fucking lupus…" House collapses onto the couch in exhaustion. "Just get out Jimmy."

Wilson sighs and retrieves the cane from inside the TV. It's a little scratched but other than that it's fine – so he gives it back to House. "Want a beer?" he asks. House nods and Wilson grabs two from the nearly-empty fridge.

They end up ordering in Chinese food and talking about everything except what happened. Because they both know that nothing could be said to ease the pain… so they chose to say nothing at all.

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House returned to work the next day, acting more like himself. It had taken awhile but Wilson could see that House was coming to terms with what happened. The oncologist couldn't be sure if House was ever going to not blame himself… but Wilson could hope.

And in the end, hope was all there really was when it comes to House. Hope that he'll change, hope that he'll get better, hope he'll become less anti-social.

Hope he'll one day stop blaming himself.


End file.
